Recently, I’ve been a bit nostalgic, pondering my old high school days. You see, the Detroit Public School System is building a new facility that will take the place of my former high school – the Detroit High School for the Fine and Performing Arts – and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that.
The new Detroit High School for the Fine and Performing Arts will feature science and computer labs; recording and dance studios; choral and instrumental rooms; a print shop; and a recital hall. In all, $35 million will be invested in improvements.
Of course, that’s not to imply that these upgrades aren’t necessary, if memory serves me correctly….
It wasn’t until my sophomore year that I first applied to the school. When my interview day arrived, I was calm as my mother and I drove up and down Rosa Park Avenue for 15 minutes looking for an address that seemed to be non-existent. The only building large enough to be a school looked abandoned.
That could not be it, we thought.
It was.
That’s how things were, however. Young, struggling artists nurtured their talents in a run-down school in one of the most run-down parts of the city.
Sometimes I think that the only things that kept that building from falling down were the extra foundation of spitballs on the ceiling and the numerous rat nests that found sanctuary in our walls. But that made the experience all the more memorable.
Despite the conditions, I knew how blessed I was. Hundreds of extremely talented students populated those hallways with the yellow lockers. I knew I was in the presence of undeveloped greatness.
That knowledge both scared me and intrigued me. Who would we be in the future? What if we didn’t make it? Even worse, what if someone else made it and I didn’t?
The building was old, yes, but, oh, how it seemed to love us. It had been dying for a while, but we kept it alive. We breathed air into its lungs each time the wind ensemble played. We kept it youthful and vibrant with each leap and relevé. With each dramatic comedy, we kept the building smiling. With each painted canvas, the gray walls didn’t seem so drab and lifeless.
There are pieces of us still embedded in those walls, in the chairs. You can still find our fingerprints on the back door we used on skip days. The new building will not have that.
So many great people have passed through those halls, and that will be lost.
Aaliyah will be lost.
What about her the memory?
Maybe a strand of her hair was sucked into the ventilation system and current DSA students breathe her soul. The new building will not have that. Thirty-five million dollars cannot recreate her presence.
What about me? What about my classmates? What will happen to our memory?
I got my heart broke for the first time right before senior year, and I spent many a hour in the third-floor bathroom next to my art class. My tears fell onto the floor there.
I’m sure there is someone new crying in the same room, her tears meshing with mine. Through our pain, we are unified. The new building will not have that.
Nikki Giovanni once said, "Something called progress killed my grandmother."
Will this progress kill me and the hundreds of students with whom I share this bond? In the least, it surely will kill a small piece of us. It will kill a bond we share with the future students of that institution.
It’s been four years since I graduated, and I never once visited. But that old building still haunts me. It signifies a part of my life when I wasn’t so certain about my future, a time when I had no idea who I was. That building signifies the beginning of an artistic career that seemed limitless for my classmates and me.
To the students fortunate enough to enjoy the new building: You have all our support. However, when you make the transition, take a piece of us with you. Please don’t let our memory die. Don’t let progress take our memories and discard them wastefully. Remember us, the ones who came before you.